


Destiny's Reunion

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: Windmills & Windowsills [8]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Land of Departure (Kingdom Hearts), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: “If there were only two people in the world, what do you think they would be to each other?”





	Destiny's Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to have this done, like...two weeks ago. My bad. Hopefully the new tag, the M-rating, and the sheer word count make up for the delay.
> 
> Also, a couple big shout-outs before we dive in. The first is for tumblr/twitter user Rakiah, who was kind enough to let me write fanfiction based on their art. This chapter/installment was inspired by [this particular fanart](https://kingdomcarrots.tumblr.com/post/182969468403/smug-indulgence-instead-of-doing-my-job) featuring ~30-year-old character designs for Eraqus and Xehanort, which are, imho, perfect.  
> The second shout-out is for tumblr user ohhicas, who actually made Xehaqus fanart that was inspired by the last installment of this fic, which is something I still can't totally wrap my mind around. You can find it [right about here](https://ohhicas.tumblr.com/post/185397496853/also-this-doodle-from-last-night-about-bein). It's beautiful and emotional and made me get choked up about the last chapter all over again.  
> Both of these artists make great KH fanart in general, so definitely check them out if you haven't already.
> 
> And with that said...let's do this. Rated M for adult content of both the sexual and depressing varieties.

Xehanort stands at the foot of the stairs, wondering if it would be more presumptuous to wait outside and make Eraqus come to him, or to simply let himself in. He turns around and walks back to the center of the courtyard. When his hands start to get restless, he puts them in his pockets, where the corner of Eraqus’s letter pokes his wrist. It was a prompt and favorable response to the letter Xehanort sent weeks ago, assuring him that of _course_ he was welcome to visit, and that Eraqus would love to see him. Xehanort runs his thumb along the folded edge of the paper. It’s one of the few worldly possessions he’s held onto.

His foot is tapping. He tries to walk off the excess energy, but that just turns into pacing. To distract himself from his own bizarre nervousness, he studies the broken crown of Scala’s tower, which is the world’s most prominent—and possibly _only_ —landmark.

He pauses mid-step. _Departure_ , he corrects himself. Not Scala. He shakes his head. Less than five minutes into his visit, and he’s already “homesick.”

To be fair, the two worlds are remarkably similar, at least on the surface. The earthiness of Departure is the most difficult thing to adjust to, compared with the pristine white and blue clarity of Scala. But the gilded features are the same. The mountain range on the horizon resembles the conical island towns. The chains that bind rock formations to the towers—or the towers to the land—call to mind the old network of gondola cables. The towers themselves look unfinished—their foundations are exposed, like the roots of extracted teeth. But they have the same inverted design of Scala’s towers, which always made Xehanort just a little nervous if he spent too long thinking about how top-heavy they were.

The world is an imitation of the traditional with a modern twist, and Xehanort can’t decide if it’s the similarities to Scala or the differences that get under his skin the most.

Departure isn’t the only thing that confronts Xehanort with a blend of the old and the new. Eraqus finally emerges from the tower, absolutely brimming with excitement when he sees Xehanort and hurrying down the stairs to greet him. He looks mostly the same, which makes the slight changes stand out all the more. His white robe fits better than it used to, though it seems he still dresses for comfort as much as utility. His hair is longer, but he wears it in the same style as always. His face is a little more angular, his jaw a little sharper, his nose more defined. Xehanort watches him skip the final stair, amazed at how much this current version of Eraqus both does and doesn’t match up with the one in his memories.

They reach out to each other when they’ve closed enough distance, and Xehanort accepts and returns a long overdue embrace. The warm kiss Eraqus places on his cheek is less expected, but Xehanort takes it in stride, enjoying the subtle way Eraqus stands on his toes to reach him. Xehanort has always been taller, but it’s nice to be reminded that some things will never change.

It’s less nice when Eraqus moves back to look at him and says, “Wait, hang on, you’ve got something on your face…” and rubs his thumb on Xehanort’s chin, trying to rid it of its short goatee. Xehanort leans his head away, and Eraqus chuckles, asking much more sincerely, “How have you been?”

“Good,” Xehanort says. “Good. It’s been an…interesting trip.”

“I’ll bet. Well, come on, come inside. I want to hear all about it.”

Xehanort allows himself to be led up the stairs and into the halls of Departure, where Eraqus alternates between asking vague, open-ended questions about Xehanort’s travels and giving him an informal tour. “The anterior courtyard looks the prettiest, but it’s just for show. Nothing really important ever takes place there. There are other chambers and courtyards for exams, ceremonies, and so on. That hallway—just there, on your left—leads to the training grounds. Not that they’ve gotten much activity lately.”

“Hmm,” Xehanort says. He didn’t ask for a tour, nor does he need one, but it gives them some kind of springboard for conversation, at least. He responds politely but without much interest to everything Eraqus says, and eventually, Eraqus gives up and lets Xehanort explore at his own pace as he leads the way to the kitchen.

The most direct route is through the grand hall. It’s the focal point of Departure, a heart made of a single, vast chamber, a testament to the art and history of this world. Eraqus can’t begin to explain the amount of humility and pride he feels when he stands in this room, and he’s pleased to hear Xehanort’s footsteps come to a slow stop behind him.

Eraqus stands aside, giving Xehanort plenty of time and space to take it all in. Xehanort walks to the center of the room and looks up, turning in a slow circle to admire the carved ceiling and the skylight in its center. When he’s done appreciating the sheer scope of it, he starts to examine the rest of the room, with Eraqus following quietly.

Xehanort wanders to the far wall—always wandering, even when he’s visiting a familiar friend in a familiar world. He inspects a few of the artifacts on display—antique pottery, decorative weapons, and the like—then turns around, letting his gaze settle on the enormous window that looms across the hall like a rising sun. It’s an exquisite arrangement of stained glass, which, naturally, also stains the light that passes through it.

An intriguing aesthetic choice for Departure, Xehanort thinks, but doesn’t say. When he’s had his fill of it, he looks at Eraqus again, who says, “Well?”

Xehanort pauses, as if he’s still making up his mind about the place. Eraqus tries not to appear on edge. He used to love the way Xehanort studied the world around him, assessing it with a mind that was both curious and critical. Now he observes with a strange detachment, as if all things exist to be subject to his scrutiny, and most are found wanting.

“It’s a beautiful world,” Xehanort finally says. “It doesn’t quite have the minimalist look of Scala. It’s more ornamental. But it’s nice, in its own way.”

“Well, it isn’t meant to be Scala,” Eraqus says, resting his hand on a wooden railing like an act of reassurance. “I mean, it’ll serve a similar function, obviously. Students will train here to become Masters, and then they’ll go out into the universe to put their skills to use. But unlike Scala, this place will be easy for them to return to.”

“What makes you so sure they’ll want to come back?”

“Because I’m gonna be one of those cool teachers that graduates want to stay in touch with,” Eraqus says, with so much confidence that Xehanort has to smile. “My students are gonna love me.”

“I’m surprised there aren’t any here already.”

“Well, I’m still in training myself. Becoming a Master is one thing, but becoming a teacher is a whole other skill set. It takes a lot of commitment.”

 _Unlike traversing the galaxy without a care in the world except your ego, your own selfish desires, and the same impulses and dreams you've had since you were a child_. Xehanort fills that part in for Eraqus automatically, then instantly berates himself. It seems he’s found a way to bring Eraqus along on his travels after all: as an internal critic, an angel’s advocate, giving a voice to Xehanort’s doubts and insecurities so he doesn’t have to confront them himself. It’s an unfair and unhealthy habit, and if he doesn't cut it out, it's going to sour what’s already shaping up to be an awkward visit.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual. “Sounds like you’ve just been slacking off.”

“Oh, come on,” Eraqus laughs. “You know how long it took me to earn my Mark of Mastery. Did you expect me to become a certified Keyblade instructor in only four years?”

He expects and even looks forward to more teasing, but Xehanort has no response. He stares in slight disbelief, and Eraqus watches him carefully until he figures out what’s going through his head. “How long did you think it was since we last saw each other?”

Xehanort shrugs and fiddles with an artifact that probably shouldn’t be fiddled with, but Eraqus lets him. “I don’t know. It’s hard to keep track of time out there. Felt like longer.”

Eraqus looks sympathetic. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere. You know you can come see me anytime you want.”

“I know,” Xehanort says as he drops his hand to his side, which makes his response seem more snappish than he intended. He’s well aware of the reality of their situation. Eraqus leans on the crutch of duty, living in a stable world, easily found. If they happen to let years pass without a get-together, then the blame lies solely with Xehanort: the wanderer with no ties, no schedule, and no obligations, who still can’t seem to make time for his oldest friend.

Tension is bubbling to the surface of their silence. In an attempt to break it, Eraqus says, “Come on,” and leads Xehanort to the seating area. Xehanort hesitates at the bottom of the shallow staircase, only ascending when Eraqus waves him up. He inspects the high-backed chairs but keeps a polite distance, not even touching them, as if they were part of the collection of artifacts instead of functional pieces of furniture.

“…you can have a seat, you know,” Eraqus says. “They’re for all Masters, not just full-time residents.”

Xehanort glances at him, then at the chairs again, regarding his selection. “Which one do you usually sit in?”

“I usually don’t,” Eraqus replies, though he points to the one on the left. “But this one, when I have to.”

Xehanort goes to the opposite chair, touching its arm as he takes a seat, straight-backed and poised. The chair is identical to its companions, but with Xehanort sitting in it, it looks like it was made for him, and him alone.

And then, once he’s gotten used to it, Xehanort settles in fully, slouching just enough to tilt his head and rest it on his fingers. He crosses his legs, ankle over knee, and surveys the grand hall again, this time with an imperious, lazily amused look. Like a searchlight, his gaze sweeps across the room and slowly comes to rest on Eraqus, who shakes his head. “Well, you look comfortable.”

“I am,” Xehanort replies, and Eraqus waits for him to say something predictably awful like, “Why don’t you join me?” But he just looks down at the chair, running his hand along the arm again before he stands up.

“I don’t think I could make a habit of sitting,” he says, “but if you were to keep that seat reserved for me, I wouldn’t complain.”

“That would require you to make a habit of visiting.” Xehanort purposely jostles Eraqus on his way down the stairs, and Eraqus nudges him in return, trading nonverbal comebacks as they continue on to the kitchen.

For the rest of the afternoon, Eraqus can’t get that image of Xehanort out of his head. He’s never thought of those chairs as thrones before, but when Xehanort took his seat, that’s exactly what they became. He transforms everything he comes into contact with, unlike Eraqus, whose job is to mediate and maintain.

Eraqus has a suddenly and stupidly sentimental memory of Xehanort laying his eyes on the chess set for the first time. He’d gone straight for the black and gold king, marveling at its craftsmanship before setting it down on its proper square. In hindsight, he couldn’t have picked a more fitting piece to be enamored with. Whether he was sitting upright or in an irreverent slouch, Xehanort looked absolutely regal.

The only difference, Eraqus muses, is that the king takes one step at a time, every time, while Xehanort doesn’t even think about stopping until he’s gone past the edge of the board.

* * *

After a dinner that’s both pleasant and only mildly awkward, Eraqus talks Xehanort into taking a walk to the cliffside. He brings wine, which Xehanort is less enthused about, but he says nothing and lets his friend lead the way.

They chat as they walk, keeping the conversation light, though they trail off as they approach the cliff. It’s a fairly shallow slope, and not a long way to the bottom, but the view from it is remarkable, and Eraqus appreciates Xehanort’s respectful silence as he looks up at the night sky and the dim silhouette of mountains on the horizon.

Eraqus figured they could sit on the rocks at the edge of the cliff, but before he can suggest it, Xehanort starts making his way to a nearby boulder. It’s not particularly large, but it’s large enough that Xehanort needs to find a foothold to climb it. He works on that while Eraqus opens and pours the wine. Of course Xehanort couldn’t just follow his lead and sit somewhere simple and sensible. He has to discover and conquer some out-of-the-way spot, trying to turn Departure into just one of the many worlds he’s explored.

Xehanort’s gotten taller since the last time Eraqus saw him—much taller than he was in Scala. When he wants to do something like climb a rock, he can’t just go. An act that would have been impulsive and straightforward in his youth is something that requires planning as an adult. He has to find two places to grab onto and make sure the foothold has enough room for the toe of his boot. He shifts his weight once as a test, and only when he’s sure he won’t slip does he start to pull himself up.

But as soon as his other foot leaves the ground, he’s a teenager again, moving with a burst of kinetic energy and wholly focused on his goal. He reaches the top in a few short seconds and settles in, observing the world with bright eyes from his new vantage point. One leg dangles off the edge of the rock, and he props his other foot on a small ledge so he can rest his elbow on his knee. It’s such a familiar pose that, for a fleeting moment, Eraqus feels like he’s looking back in time.

He realizes he’s staring because Xehanort is staring at him, too, holding his hand out expectantly. Eraqus passes him a wine glass, then leans back against the rock, folding his arms casually and only uncrossing them to sip his drink.

“Do you spend much time out here?”

Eraqus shrugs. “Most nights, when the weather’s nice enough. It’s good for clearing my head. And I like stargazing.”

“It’s a great spot for it. They look beautiful.”

“Yeah. They’re probably better up close.”

There’s an awkward pause while Xehanort tries to figure out if that was an invitation to talk about his travels, or a passive aggressive warning not to. Eraqus isn’t sure himself. He does spend a lot of time on this cliff, looking up at the sky, though lately he spends more time looking at the space between the stars than at the stars themselves. He takes another sip of wine and tries not to examine that too closely.

“I’m surprised you’re engaging in this sort of behavior,” Xehanort says. When Eraqus glances at him quizzically, he nods at the wine. “Drinking? And it’s not even a holiday? Not exactly conduct befitting of a Master, is it?”

“First of all, I’m not a monk, and you’re delusional if you think _any_ of our Masters abstained from anything they were supposed to.” Xehanort snorts, but he has to admit that he’s developed that view over time. Something about the Land of Departure makes the entire world feel like consecrated ground. It’s another trait it shares with Scala, which is a comparison Xehanort keeps making despite constantly reminding himself not to.

“Secondly,” Eraqus continues, more quietly, “this is a special occasion. First visit in four years.”

Xehanort feels the pinprick of guilt again, and a much sharper stab of resentment toward Eraqus for making him feel it. But stronger than either of those is something in Eraqus’s tone that catches his curiosity. “I’m not the _only_ visitor you’ve had in the past four years, am I?”

He’s relieved when Eraqus gives him a withering look. “ _No_ ,” he says, as if it were such a baseless question. “Of course not. A few of the senior Masters visit regularly to check in.”

“…and?”

“And what?” Xehanort studies him for a long moment, which Eraqus tries and fails to ignore. “ _What_?”

Xehanort looks at the mountains again. “Nothing,” he says. “Just…seems like a lonely place. That’s all.”

“No more than Scala.”

“How so? Scala’s a populated world. You know…mostly.”

“Sure. But no one went back once they left. And the only worlds that returned were the dead ones.” Eraqus swirls his wine, sounding unexpectedly detached from the place where he grew up. “Nothing and no one was ever meant to stay. How could a place like that _not_ feel lonely? How could it have ever been a home?”

 _Gondola rides over the windmills_ , Xehanort thinks. _Chess games on the windowsill. Taking naps on the grass. Finally learning how to cast gravity. Saving food from breakfast whenever you overslept. Waking you up in the research library before you drooled on the archives. Our first kiss. How hard you cried when we had to say good-bye—not just to each other, but to an entire world._

“So…you haven’t gone back? Not even for a visit?”

“No. Not for a few years, at least. There’s more to do here, anyway.” When Xehanort takes a sip of his drink, exuding skepticism, Eraqus adds, “In all these years, have you ever gone back to your islands?”

Xehanort slowly lowers his glass to give Eraqus a flat, sidelong look, and Eraqus gives him an unflinching one right back. After a brief standoff, Xehanort rolls his eyes, and they both go back to looking at the stars.

Eraqus loves his role in Departure, despite Xehanort’s thinly-veiled attempts to get him to admit otherwise. He loves the historical significance of his job, and he even loves the more mundane aspects of it, the day-in, day-out minutiae of being a steward. He’s grown fond of the routine, and when he gives his time and energy to this world, it pays him back with a sense of deep fulfillment.

He wonders if that’s how Xehanort feels about his own pursuits. If his long journeys through the yawning void of space are as fulfilling as the discovery of new worlds. If he stays in each world for a while, exploring all its little facets, learning it inside and out, or if he embarks on another journey as soon as the novelty wears off. Eraqus might be a lonely warden of a single world, but Xehanort is a lonely wanderer among many.

“What’s it like out there, anyway?” Eraqus asks. “In the Ocean Between.”

Xehanort seems surprised by the question, or at least surprised that Eraqus is interested in the answer. He stares at the horizon while he gathers his thoughts, and Eraqus does as well. They look mostly toward the same place, where the land meets the sky. But Eraqus looks at the land half, loyally following the curvature of the world, a gradual arc that will eventually return to its starting point. Xehanort looks at the sky half, staring into blackness, to a place where no horizons exist.

“It feels like I’m searching,” he finally says. “It always has, but now…I can feel the pressure of needing to figure out _what_ I’m searching for. Sometimes, it’s almost like time is pressing in on me instead of carrying me forward.”

“I thought you liked the search. You know, focusing on the trip, not the destination.”

“The journey between point A and point B?”

Eraqus laughs unexpectedly, surprised that Xehanort still recalls conversations from over a decade ago. “Exactly,” he says, his tone warming up as remembrance gives way to nostalgia. “I told you. That’s the best part.”

Xehanort smiles, partly at their current conversation, and partly in memory of their past one. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “It’s just the wine—it’s making me sound like a fatalist. I _have_ been enjoying the journey. I’ve learned and gained so much from it. But the farther I go, and the longer I keep at it, the more the destinations start to have their appeal.” He takes another sip of wine and winces as he swallows it, trying not to let the taste sit on his tongue. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Well, we’re all getting old,” Eraqus says dismissively. “Granted, some of us are doing it a little better than others.”

“Yeah,” Xehanort says as he glances at Eraqus. He looks him over for a moment before adding, “You look good.”

“You look like a hobo.”

Xehanort is too caught off guard to hold back a laugh. “I look like a vagabond, actually.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Mainly that yours was an insult. ‘Vagabond’ sounds more roguish and dashing.”

“Oh, good. You’re pretentious _and_ pedantic. And here I was, actually starting to _miss_ having you around.”

Xehanort nudges Eraqus’s shoulder with his boot, and Eraqus grabs his ankle and shoves his leg away while Xehanort chuckles into his wine glass.

“Well, you’ve been a ‘vagabond’ for years now, and you’re showing no signs of stopping, or even slowing down.”

“Your point?”

“You said you’re still searching,” Eraqus says. “I know it’s a vast, wide universe out there, but you spend all your time in it. You’d think, by now, you’d have an inkling of what your path is. Or at least where to _find_ it.”

Xehanort smiles and shakes his head to himself. “Oh, don’t do that,” Eraqus says, his tolerance for smugness and arrogance much lower than when they were teenagers. “Whatever condescending nonsense you’re dying to say to me, just say it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Xehanort says simply. “You’ve never understood. And I don’t blame you.”

“There’s a relief.”

“You never needed to find your path,” Xehanort goes on, “because it was laid out for you from the start. And _I_ don’t need to find my path because it isn’t something that _can_ be found. I leave it behind me as I go.”

“Oh, yes. You’re the most exceptional person who ever existed. How could I have forgotten.”

“I told you, you don’t understand.”

“‘ _Nooo_ , I can’t settle down on just one world like a _normal_ person,’” Eraqus says, in a bad impression of Xehanort’s voice but a fairly good impression of his mannerisms, punctuating the sentence with hand gestures that have Xehanort biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “‘I’m far too free-spirited and _remarkable_ for that. I have to have total control over my destiny at every moment. If I’m not grabbing my life by the throat and throttling it into submission, then what’s the point?’”

“Yes,” Xehanort says, “I do like to be in control of myself and my life. I don’t understand what kind of person _wouldn’t_. Or would you like to see _my_ equally terrible impression? ‘No, I don’t need to be bothered with little frivolities like _decision-making_. I always wanted to be jettisoned off to live out the rest of my days on an empty, practically defunct world. Thank you _so_ much, Masters, for mapping out my entire life before I was even born! Where would I be without a horde of authority figures to dictate my every move, _forever_?’”

“Wow. Anything else you’d like to say about my home? Any other ways you want to insult the world you’re an honored guest in? Or is that not a distinction to you? Flitting from one world to the next, always a visitor, never lingering too long because…what? You’re afraid if you stay put for a while you’ll stop being distracted by all the shiny new places and things, and you might realize what an unstable life you’ve been living?”

Xehanort looks not only unamused, but unimpressed. “I wasn’t insulting your home,” he says patiently, like he’s explaining it to a child. “I was insulting _you_.”

“Same thing. You insult one, you insult the other.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about. Your entire identity now is where you live and what purpose you serve.”

“And yours is…?” Xehanort blinks, and Eraqus raises his eyebrows. “What? Isn’t it easy to figure out your identity without trivial things like ‘home’ and ‘purpose’ and ‘duty’ to distract your oh-so- _brilliant_ mind? Who _are_ you out there?”

They both wait for Xehanort’s response, but he doesn’t give one. Eraqus wonders if he actually managed to stump him for once, or if they’ve just reached a part of the conversation that Xehanort is no longer willing to entertain. A checkmate or a stalemate—Eraqus can’t tell anymore. He leans back against the rock and stares into the shallow valley below, still tinged with gloaming blue.

“You know,” he begins, “I used to drive myself crazy, trying to figure out why you always felt you had to leave. I wondered what was so captivating out there—or what was so unbearable _here_ —that you couldn’t stand to visit for more than a few days at a time.”

“Don’t do this.”

“And now, I find myself wondering why you bother to come _back_. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong—it was so long ago—but on your last visit, I’m pretty sure we managed to last a full day without fighting.”

“We’re more time-efficient now.”

“This was your idea, you know. And for what? It seems like all you want to do is argue, and if that’s the case, then you might as well spare us both the frustration, because I learned a long time ago that only an absolute fool would ever try to get you to change your mind.”

“You’re making this way too personal,” Xehanort says, propping his elbow on his knee so he can rub the side of his face wearily.

“I’m making this too _personal_?” Eraqus repeats. “I told you I loved you, and you _left_.”

Xehanort drops his hand to give Eraqus a truly incredulous look. “You waited until I was leaving to tell me.”

“You knew.”

“Of course I _knew_. That’s not the point.” He faces Eraqus, his foot slipping off the rock a few times as he readjusts. “Is that why you didn’t say it until the last minute? You thought that’s what would finally make me decide to give up everything and stay?”

Eraqus stares. There’s no steady tide to fill the gaps in their conversations anymore, no creak of windmills or cry of gulls. Just the soft buzz of the lamps along the dirt path, and the impassive silence of sentinel mountains in the distance. “I wasn’t stupid,” he says. “I never thought I’d be enough to make you stay.”

Xehanort looks away, but Eraqus leans forward until he’s in his line of sight again. “I said it,” he continues, speaking slowly and clearly, “because I wanted to make sure I told you at least once. And in that moment, I didn’t know if I’d ever get another chance.”

Xehanort has no response, and Eraqus lets the words sink in before going on. “And for the record,” he says, “if I _were_ trying to get you to stay, maybe that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing. I mean…look at yourself. You’re adrift out there. You’ve been adrift for years. Don’t you think there’s a reason why, out of all the worlds you’ve seen, _this_ is the one you keep coming back to? Maybe for, I don’t know, the stability? The reliability? The security?”

“I come back for _you_ , you fucking idiot,” Xehanort says, wondering now if his first drink in four years is really doing him any favors. “I want to see you, and I’m _tired_ of being the only one willing to bridge the gap to do it. We could meet up _anywhere_. And you don’t even want to. Whenever I visit, you spend more time showing me around Departure—as if it’s changed at all since you got here—than asking me about any of the dozens of worlds I’ve been to.”

“Don’t get angry with me just because I’ve found somewhere to settle down and you’re still pinballing from one planet to the next. I know I said the journey is the fun part, but the idea _is_ to find your point B eventually.”

“For you, maybe. My only goal was to leave point A. I don’t _want_ a point B,” Xehanort says, a little too strongly. “I never have, and I hope I never will.”

He has a defiant sip of wine, which is more of a “take that” to himself than anything. Eraqus stares straight ahead at the mountains. They could hardly have picked a more abrupt place to stop arguing, but they commit to it, trying to let the tension fizzle out instead of fester.

The sudden onslaught of gnats gives them an excuse to go inside without seeming like they’re storming away angrily. Eraqus offers his hand to help Xehanort down from the rock, and Xehanort offers to carry the wine glasses, then awkwardly sticks his hands in his pockets when Eraqus declines. As they leave the cliffside and walk up the path to the tower, they try to remember that Departure is, in the grand scheme of things, meant to be neutral ground.

But walking together in silence feels too much like pouting, so to prove that they aren’t, they talk, and it isn’t long before the conversation takes its natural course and drops them in an argument again.

Xehanort can’t believe he gave Eraqus the benefit of the doubt. He had berated himself not only for letting Eraqus live rent-free in his mind as a critic, but also for assuming that it was an unfair exaggeration, that the _real_ Eraqus would _never_ say those things. Xehanort isn’t a fan of admitting when he’s wrong, but he acknowledges that he’s developed a romantic and fairly patronizing view of Eraqus in their years apart, remembering him for his light and warmth while forgetting the fire that created them.

“You treat life like a chess game,” Xehanort says, leaning against the kitchen counter while Eraqus rinses the glasses in the sink. “Rigid lines, everyone with an appointed role and place, everything either black or white, right or wrong. It’s not that clear-cut.”

“It’s not about right or wrong,” Eraqus insists. “No one’s saying darkness is _evil_ , but it’s _destructive_ , and it can’t be wielded like light. Why am I even—we spent _years_ learning about this.”

“We spent years _reading_ about it, and being _lectured_ on it. You can’t say you’ve learned about something unless you’ve been—oh, for the love of— _give_ me that,” Xehanort says, after Eraqus’s fourth failed attempt to keep his sleeves rolled up. He shoulders him out of the way, cuffing his own sleeves and taking over at the sink. Eraqus puts his hands in the air in a sarcastic surrender, then curses when dishwater trickles all the way down to his elbows. He searches for a towel while Xehanort runs a sponge over the glasses, using the repetitive motion to calm down and get his thoughts together.

“When you immerse yourself in something,” he says quietly, “you don’t just learn about it. You learn _from_ it. Looking at the light and dark dichotomy from the side of darkness…it’s changed my whole view on the dichotomy itself. And you’re right—it’s not about good or bad, right or wrong. Light and darkness are just order and chaos.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Eraqus insists as he dries the glasses. “Darkness is volatile. It’s a force of nature.”

“They both are,” Xehanort says. “Chaos doesn’t necessarily mean destruction. It means possibilities. Light is structure and clarity, and darkness is pure potential at every moment. They _have_ to coexist, because without darkness to offset the light…it’s just stagnation. Worlds become still like that. And stillness—absolute stillness—might as well be death.”

“Of course the man who never stops moving would say that,” Eraqus fires back as they leave the kitchen and approach the stairs. “It’s okay to be still once in a while. You _need_ to be still, sometimes, if only to give yourself a chance to think things through before you go diving headfirst into something stupid or, god forbid, dangerous.”

“Oh, _do_ tell,” Xehanort laughs, “what _danger_ am I supposedly getting myself into?”

“I don’t know! I have no earthly idea, because I don’t _hear_ from you. I don’t _see_ you. I’ve been telling you since day one to take your time and be careful, and you seem determined to just tear through the universe at breakneck speed.”

“You make it sound like I’m setting out to wreck something.”

“You’re talking about tampering with the hearts of worlds.”

“I’m talking about _studying_ them,” Xehanort says, a slight edge sharpening his voice as he makes that distinction for what feels like the thousandth time. “Remember how all those history books described the hearts of worlds in archaic, borderline mystical language, without ever truly explaining what they are or how they work? Don’t you want to find out for yourself?”

“You’re talking to someone who’s responsible for maintaining and protecting an entire world. You do realize that, right?”

“But don’t you want to _understand_ what you’re protecting?”

“Don’t _you_ want to understand what I even do here? I’ve spent the past few years taking on one responsibility after another, and that’s only a fraction of what I’m expected to handle. This isn’t any ordinary world.”

“ _None_ of them are ordinary. Again, something you would _know_ if you—”

“Yes, yes,” Eraqus says as he turns down the lamps at the top of the stairs, “something I would know if I grew a goatee and stopped buttoning my shirt and basically turned into a very well-dressed homeless man.”

Xehanort almost wants to laugh at that one, but he presses on. “In all of our debates, this was the one topic you could never even entertain.”

“Because this is more than some stupid debate to pass the time. The worlds aren’t yours to toy with. You used to complain about your island being an oversized playground, like that was such a terrible thing to grow up with as a child. And now that you’re thirty years old, you just want to play a never-ending game of tag with every world in the universe?”

“You are so threatened by the mere _idea_ of this that you have to make it sound like children’s play? Oh, no,” Xehanort adds when Eraqus shakes his head dismissively. “You’re the one who started this argument.”

“ _You_ started this argument.”

“…regardless,” Xehanort says, genuinely unable to confirm or deny that, “what’s so bad about research? Why am I forbidden from testing these things?”

“Because nothing like it has ever been done before. And _if_ this research is to be carried out, it should be in more hands than yours alone. Ideally, you wouldn’t even be involved. I know you. You talk like this is about some greater good, but your only real goal is to sate your curiosity, and that’s not worth endangering even a single, barren world.”

“I’m _curious_ ,” Xehanort says, trying to make eye contact with Eraqus as they round the corner to the sleeping quarters, “because whenever I so much as broach the subject, you and everyone else try to shut me down immediately.”

“Because when you start something, you don’t stop until someone tells you to. And _I_ can’t tell you because I’m stuck _here_ , while you’re out _there_ , doing who _knows_ what—”

“So, you _do_ feel stuck here?”

“Oh, good _grief_. You never change, do you? You pick apart my word choice when I’m at my most annoyed and then act like you’ve won the argument. You want to talk about stagnation and a lack of progress? Start with yourself. It’s like trying to argue with a smug teenager all over again.”

“All _right_ ,” Xehanort says, less aggravated by the insults than by Eraqus’s sheer unwillingness to listen. “Point made. Checkmate. Congratulations. This my room?”

Xehanort doesn’t mind losing arguments as much as he pretends to, but leaving them unresolved has a tendency to make him fume. He’s fully prepared to go to bed angry, but he only makes it two steps toward the door before Eraqus turns him around by his shoulder, saying, “Oh, no you don’t.” Xehanort tries to swat his hand away, unable to believe—as petty as they’ve both been known to act—that they would actually resort to pushing and pulling like a schoolyard fight. But Eraqus grabs the front of Xehanort’s shirt and pulls him in without hesitation, going straight for an open-mouthed kiss.

Xehanort doesn’t have time to gather himself, or even to dwell on his surprise. All he can do is follow Eraqus’s lead, kissing him back just as fiercely while he takes a deep breath through his nose and feels his heart swell like an ocean.

Eraqus wraps his free arm around Xehanort’s waist, taking him blindly across the hallway to his own room, and Xehanort keeps his eyes open just to make sure Eraqus doesn’t run them into a wall. They make it inside without incident, and despite being the only two people in the tower—in the entire world—Eraqus reaches past Xehanort to shut the door.

The noise is solid and sharp, and it sends a new surge of desire through them. Xehanort guides Eraqus to the nearest wall, caging him against it, and when Eraqus strives upward, Xehanort reaches behind his legs to hoist him up, stepping forward to keep him pinned. Eraqus wraps his legs around Xehanort’s waist and takes his face in both hands to kiss him again, this time lifting Xehanort up instead of dragging him down.

Xehanort’s head swims. He thinks about how much time they’ve wasted today on arguments that they _knew_ wouldn’t accomplish anything, when they could’ve just acted like adults and done this hours ago. Annoyance flares up, and instead of trying to tamp it down, he lets it fuel him, murmuring between each kiss, “You are— _so_ —obnoxious.”

As usual, Eraqus is much better at balancing his priorities. “You’re stubborn and reckless and arrogant,” he says, flawlessly alternating between talking and kissing without letting one distract from the other. He fumbles behind Xehanort’s head to undo his ponytail and lays kisses all over his face, from his forehead to his temple to his cheek to his nose. When he finally pulls the hair tie loose, he adds, “And your beard is _terrible_.”

Xehanort immediately kisses him twice as deeply as before, flinching in distaste and yet craving more when Eraqus bites his lip. He brings them to the bed and lets them both drop onto it unceremoniously, sliding his arm under Eraqus’s back and guiding him up to the headboard. Eraqus pulls him down for another kiss, which Xehanort has trouble reciprocating while also trying to climb on top of him. His mild tipsiness and sudden excitement, which is finally starting to catch up with him and affect his nerves, makes him clumsier than he’d normally be. He swears under his breath as he tries to figure out how to remove Eraqus’s robe without having to get off him again.

“This… _thing_ ,” he says, unable to find a place to kneel without pinning it to the mattress, “has _always_ been too big for you.”

“Well, we didn’t all _paint_ our shirts on,” Eraqus snarks back, though he’s just as uncoordinated, needing a few tries to wriggle his shoulder out of the sleeve.

“Is this _literally_ the same robe you wore in Scala?” Xehanort asks, inspecting it more closely and recognizing a sloppy mending job where a seam had come loose, years ago.

“It has sentimental value.”

“And it’s just never occurred to you to update your wardrobe? In, like, thirteen years?”

“What, and follow your example?” Eraqus asks as Xehanort gets fed up and wrestles the robe out from underneath him once his arms are free. “Every time you change your style, it’s for the worse.”

“I—you—” Xehanort says, repeatedly cutting himself off as he finally _looks_ at Eraqus: half-reclined beneath him, leaning back on his elbows, wearing a plain black shirt with a high collar but no sleeves. Eraqus waits for his comeback, but when he sees the look on Xehanort’s face, he reaches up without a word, sliding his hand to the back of Xehanort’s head and pulling him down for another kiss.

They make fast work of undressing each other. Eraqus is eager to get rid of what he’s been mentally referring to as “the douchebag ensemble,” going so far as to fold Xehanort’s collar down properly before removing his shirt. Xehanort situates himself between Eraqus’s legs and pulls his thin shirt over his head. He seems to be taking the lead, and Eraqus lets him have it for the sake of not interrupting their momentum. It’s only when Xehanort tries to run his hand through Eraqus’s hair that Eraqus finally notices he’s trembling.

His hands have always been restless. They itch to take hold of things, to mold, to shape. But this is the first time they’ve seemed out of his control. Xehanort, who perched on boulders and slouched on thrones, exuding confidence and charisma, is unable to kiss Eraqus without shaking.

Eraqus opens his eyes and touches Xehanort’s hand. He doesn’t say anything, not even to comment on how Xehanort’s eyes, once silver and cool, now look so vividly, oddly gold in the dark. He intertwines their fingers, brushing his thumb over Xehanort’s skin, kissing his knuckles, his fingertips, his palm, his wrist. When Xehanort’s hand finally stills, Eraqus lets go and touches his face instead, trying to infuse him with a sense of calm. They’ve slowed down long enough for the shaking to cease. Any longer, and they run the risk of breaking the spell.

Xehanort gazes at Eraqus like a man who’s been unraveling for years and is still waiting to fully come undone. He leans down, bringing their foreheads together so gently that they barely touch, and quietly says, “I’ll stop if you tell me to.”

Eraqus keeps his hand on the side of Xehanort’s face, running his fingertips over smooth skin and the occasion bristle of white hair. He doesn’t ask him to clarify. He simply waits for Xehanort to lean into his touch, then he tilts his head, kissing him slowly and deeply.

When Xehanort finally starts to unwind, Eraqus brings one hand down to his bicep. He’s never made a secret of his attraction to Xehanort’s arms, and it greatly influenced the latter’s lack of sleeves during his time in Scala. After feeling his muscles for a few indulgent seconds, Eraqus gently grabs his arm and turns him onto his back.

Xehanort lays his head on the pillow and sighs, a sound full of vulnerability and neediness and gratitude. There’s so much weight to it that it feels like the air pressure of the entire room shifts. He jolts when Eraqus kneels over him, like the sudden kick of a body right on the edge of sleep, a last-minute resistance to relaxation. But Eraqus runs his hands steadily across Xehanort’s chest and down his sides, and soon he’s at ease again.

The time they’ve spent apart hangs above their heads like a shroud, and they feel those lost years like a keening ache. Still, they take their time. They help each other finish undressing and make love in a nest of cool sheets and blankets and a truly excessive amount of pillows, because no matter how much self-discipline Eraqus tries to have, he still prioritizes physical comfort whenever possible.

After they’ve finished, Eraqus lingers over Xehanort, keeping him safe beneath his body as he comes down and catches his breath. When Xehanort rests his hand on Eraqus’s waist, pushing gently, Eraqus gets off him, pulling the sheet up before finally lying on his side. Xehanort keeps some space between them while he cools off and lets his heart rate fall back to normal, then he turns on his side as well, with visible effort. He shuts his eyes as Eraqus rakes his fingers through his hair, combing it back. Eraqus strokes his face, admiring how peaceful he looks—not just at ease, but at rest, letting his guard down for the first time in ages. It must be contagious, because without thinking, Eraqus says, “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Xehanort opens his eyes again. He thought they had an unspoken agreement to avoid saying things like that, which only draw attention to how few and far between his visits are, and how fleetingly they pass. Eraqus seems to realize he stepped out of bounds. Xehanort almost meets him there with whispered words of comfort, but Eraqus spares him from making any offers or promises he cannot and will not keep. He leans in again to give Xehanort a kiss that feels like an apology, and they say nothing more.

* * *

Normally, Eraqus wouldn’t wake until sunrise, but the covers have been pushed down, and the nighttime chill is seeping in. When he opens his eyes, he sees extra space on the mattress beside him. On any other night, this would mean nothing. Tonight, it makes the bed half empty.

Eraqus props himself up on his elbow, fighting back a yawn. He’s slow to wake up, usually, but when he looks across the room, he’s alert in a heartbeat. Xehanort is standing beside the window, half-dressed but still bare from the waist up, as if he started getting ready to leave and then something held him back.

Slowly, Eraqus sits up a little further and says, “Hey.” Xehanort glances at him, surprised to see him awake, and Eraqus gives him a concerned look. “You okay?”

Xehanort gazes at him, genuinely considering the question, but when the curtain stirs, he turns to the window again. Something lights in his eye, some interest in the traveling wind, in the currents that could take a Keyblade glider straight through the upper atmosphere and off the world entirely. Eraqus holds his hand out, flat on the mattress, palm up. It’s meant as an invitation, but it feels like a plea.

“Xehanort.”

It takes him longer to look away from the view this time, and Eraqus stretches his arm further. “It’s cold,” he says softly. “Come back. We can talk about anything you want.” That catches Xehanort’s attention, at least enough for him to turn his head. “You can tell me about where you’ve been. You can tell me about other worlds.” Eraqus lifts his hand by a few inches, a silent _please_ tacked onto the end of his offer.

Xehanort’s initial response is to take offense, and even to feel hurt that his oldest and only real friend—the one who never cut him any slack, whether in chess matches or sparring or arguments—would start pandering to him now. But even in such a quiet tone, Xehanort can hear it. Eraqus isn’t pandering, but bargaining.

For a moment, Xehanort stays by the windowsill, standing in a moonbeam. The pale blue stains his skin, giving it a sickly aura, but when he steps out of the light, all is soothed again. The fire of wanderlust dims to a candle flicker, and he returns to bed. Eraqus watches him the whole way, reaching up for Xehanort’s shoulder as he settles in.

Xehanort kisses him and guides him back to the mattress. He kneels over Eraqus and stays there this time, pushing the covers down with his foot while Eraqus reaches between them to unfasten Xehanort’s pants, and then behind him to slide them off. The night air is a small shock to the system, and Xehanort brought some of the chill with him, enough to make Eraqus wonder how long he’d been standing there at the open window, looking out beyond the stars.

But the warmth rekindles quickly, and soon it’s radiating off of Xehanort in waves. Eraqus wants to both move closer to him and sink deeper into the mattress, and Xehanort solves that dilemma by pressing down on Eraqus, the same way he did when they were against the wall. He does this more often than Eraqus remembers: pinning and grabbing, unsubtle but possibly subconscious attempts at possession—to not only have Eraqus, but keep him. Xehanort leans on his elbow and tangles his fingers in Eraqus’s hair, passing his free hand down Eraqus’s waist and along the side of his leg, guiding it up and around his hip. He doesn’t shake at all.

Afterward, Xehanort persuades Eraqus into facing away from him so he can rub his shoulders, working out any lingering tension. He flatters himself by noting that most of it is already gone, but there’s still some hardness when he presses his fingertips in, a constant and troubling layer of stored stress. Xehanort moves his hands in smooth spirals, kissing a trail from between Eraqus’s shoulder blades all the way up the back of his neck.

He keeps going until Eraqus shrugs him off and turns over again. They lie side by side, facing each other. Eraqus’s hair is wavy with sweat, and Xehanort brushes it off his forehead and tucks it behind his ear with his ring finger. He’s overly meticulous, taking the opportunity to study Eraqus’s face and marvel not at how much or how little he’s changed, but how _well_. He hasn’t done anything different with his hair or clothes or overall appearance. He simply stepped back and let maturity take its natural course, strengthening his brow, defining his cheekbones, angling his jaw—just by a few degrees, but showing his years clearly.

Xehanort slides his fingertips down Eraqus’s temple and cheek, holds his jaw, and brushes his thumb over his lips. Eraqus closes his eyes, kissing Xehanort’s thumb as it passes his mouth. Once Xehanort coaxes his lips apart, he moves in for another kiss, long and slow, then pulls away by a few inches, resting his head on the pillow again as he says, “You’re beautiful.”

He realizes too late that he’s relying on the Eraqus he knew from years ago to blush, look away, and make some obvious attempt to change the subject. But present-day Eraqus lets his gaze sweep over Xehanort’s face and whichever parts of his body aren’t covered by the sheet, openly admiring him. With no energy to be clever or witty, and no desire to be anything but honest, Eraqus responds, “You look like a god.”

Xehanort stares for a moment, then starts to turn onto his other side. For the second time that night—though much gentler than the first—Eraqus says, “No you don’t,” and puts his hand on the far side of Xehanort’s face, guiding him back. It’s a few minutes before Xehanort can handle making eye contact, and Eraqus enjoys watching him in the meantime, amused by how bad he still is at accepting wholehearted compliments.

When Xehanort finally meets his gaze again, Eraqus says, “I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know. Personally, I think you’re exaggerating. Demigod, at best.”

“Not that. Well, yes, that. But earlier.” Eraqus scoots closer and rolls onto his back, prompting Xehanort to do the same so Eraqus can lay his head on his shoulder. “About the other worlds you’ve been to. I want to hear about them.”

Xehanort rests his arm around Eraqus, dragging his fingertips lightly up and down his chest. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. The things you’ve seen and done. Which places you liked best. Anything you want to talk about.”

Xehanort thinks it over while Eraqus gets more comfortable. In all the time he’s spent touring the universe, it never occurred to him to rank the worlds based on his personal preferences. It seems like an obvious thing to do, now that he’s been asked to do it.

He doesn’t know where to begin, so he starts describing whichever worlds come to mind first. Wintry worlds, urbanized worlds, ever-changing worlds, never-changing worlds. He talks about crystal caverns and places without gravity and forests as deep as seas. Eraqus is a good audience, asking questions here and there but mostly listening in attentive silence. He seems to like hearing about Xehanort’s travels. Or maybe it’s just Xehanort’s hand in his hair that’s relaxing him, or the feeling of his heartbeat, or his soft way of speaking, more breath than voice, like the whisper of a seashell held to Eraqus’s ear, telling stories of Xehanort’s voyage across the intergalactic ocean between worlds.

Eventually, Eraqus has to know. “What keeps you going out there?” he asks. “It’s been years. There must be something more than the thrill of discovery driving you forward. What are you looking for, that you haven’t found yet?”

He doesn’t expect an answer, and he even expects that the question will be what finally pushes Xehanort away. But Xehanort, always in some state of motion, trails his fingertips down Eraqus’s shoulder and arm as he contemplates his answer. “I want to find…” He furrows his brow, trying to take every complex, interwoven urge and desire and need in his brain and his heart and funnel them down to one concise, all-encompassing statement. “I want to find something that’s mine,” he finally says.

“…a place?” Eraqus asks. “A whole world?”

Xehanort shrugs gently, jostling Eraqus as little as possible. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll know it when I find it.”

Eraqus doesn’t ask anything further. He used to be jealous of Xehanort. He felt small in the shadow of his ambition, though he never admitted it—or maybe he did, without meaning to. His praise of Xehanort, no matter how genuine, always came with a trace of envy.

But their years apart have finally allowed Eraqus to see Xehanort for the man he’s become. His disheveled demeanor, his restlessness, the lines on his face—under his eyes, around his mouth, between his eyebrows. The boundless imagination and zeal from his youth have warped into something quietly frenzied. The more he sees of the universe, the more his ambition expands to accommodate all of it. He doesn’t seem to ever want to be satisfied.

If he has specific plans or goals, he doesn’t share them with Eraqus anymore; he simply lets them latch onto his mind without letting go, like a parasite. Eraqus can’t help wondering if that’s the real reason Xehanort wanted to visit Departure: to wear himself out and lay his brain to rest, if only for one night.

Eraqus presses his lips to Xehanort’s chest, sliding his hand up one side of his neck while he kisses his way up the other side. Xehanort sighs slowly, having long since closed his eyes. It occurs to him that he could have this. He could stay, and this is what it would be like, all the time, whenever they want. He could still travel—his journeys would just come with a built-in end point, and it would be Departure. He could balance the priorities in his life instead of dropping one entirely in favor of another. He could have mornings and evenings instead of empty space and distant starlight. He could have a bed. This world wouldn’t be _his_ , but none of them had been, so far. He would at least be welcome in it.

He’s already kissing Eraqus again. Neither one of them is trying to push his way into the other’s mouth, but rather trying to draw the other in. Eraqus takes Xehanort’s hand and loops his arm around his waist, then presses as close as possible. Xehanort holds him tightly and deepens the kiss, responding to that unspoken demand for comfort and security. He rakes his free hand through Eraqus’s hair, eliciting a content sigh which goes into Xehanort’s mouth and straight through his heart.

When they separate for breath, Xehanort has trouble finding his. He holds onto Eraqus and gazes at his face, able to make out every detail, even in the dark. Eraqus returns his look, then gives Xehanort a kiss on the cheek before settling down in his arms and laying his head on his chest. “Get some rest,” he murmurs, only half-awake himself. Xehanort kisses the top of his head for a long moment, then presses his cheek to it and closes his eyes, hoping to follow Eraqus into whatever dreamscape he visits while he sleeps.

* * *

Xehanort wakes up first the next morning, though Eraqus isn’t far behind, apparently a much lighter sleeper now than he was back in Scala. He tries and fails to get his hair out of his face as he greets Xehanort with a horse, “Morning,” and Xehanort knows this is it. Yesterday, he had followed a flood tide of emotions to Departure, so desperate for solid ground that he allowed himself to be washed ashore in a world he despised. High tide had even brought him all the way to Eraqus’s bed.

But the sun is rising like a ball of pink foil, and the cool, quiet blue of the night before is already gone forever. Like always, Xehanort feels the ebb, the insistent pull at his feet as he stands on the shoreline between staying in a world and leaving it.

Still, he puts his hand on the back of Eraqus’s head, weaving his fingers in his messy hair and giving him a kiss on his forehead. Eraqus leans into it, and then Xehanort pulls away, admires him for a moment, and gets out of bed to take the first shower without asking.

Afterward, while Eraqus is in the shower and Xehanort is trying to figure out where he dropped his hairband last night, his gaze sweeps across the dresser, and he pauses. With his fingertips, he extracts a familiar piece of paper from beneath some documents and a mountain of laundry that Eraqus hasn’t gotten around to folding yet.

Xehanort recognizes his own handwriting, but he barely recognizes his own words. “ _If you aren’t busy_ …” “ _…could use a break from…_ ” “ _…been too long_ …” His eyes jump around the page to prevent him from reading complete sentences. It was only a few weeks ago that he sent the letter, but he refuses to relive whatever state of mind he’d been in at the time of writing it. He can’t remember ever feeling as lost and aimless as his words implied.

He glances at the bathroom door—slightly ajar, allowing him to hear the sound of running water. He folds the paper and sets it down, and—in an impulsive move that Xehanort has no way of knowing how much he’ll later regret—he takes Eraqus’s letter from his pocket and slides it underneath the original. There’s a good chance that Eraqus will misread this gesture as petty and spiteful when he discovers the letter—or maybe it _is_ petty and spiteful. Xehanort isn’t above that, and he knows it. But he’d rather one of them keep the full correspondence, than each of them go on carrying only the better halves.

When Eraqus emerges from the bathroom with clean clothes and damp hair, they go downstairs for a light breakfast, consisting mostly of fruit. They aren’t eager to say their farewells, but they aren’t naive enough to think that Xehanort’s visit will last beyond this morning, and at this age, they prefer to get through it as quickly as possible than needlessly draw it out.

Eraqus accompanies Xehanort to the courtyard when it’s time for him to leave. The sun is high in the sky now, burning so brightly that it’s almost white against the blue, challenging Xehanort to rise and meet it.

“So, where are you off to next?” Eraqus asks conversationally, as if this hasn’t historically been the sorest subject and most frequent cause of friction between them.

“I don’t know,” Xehanort says. “I never do.”

Eraqus nods, accepting Xehanort’s capricious, wandering nature, and his tendency to take off for places Eraqus doesn’t even know how to find. Xehanort glances at the mountains on the horizon, then at Eraqus again, not sure what else to say.

“Thanks for making time for me.”

“Of course,” Eraqus replies. “It was good to see you again.”

“You too.” Xehanort pauses, and then, in an attempt to come up with some suitable parting words, he asks, “You really hate the beard?”

He feels ridiculous as soon as he says it, but Eraqus’s expression softens at the self-conscious nature of the question. He lays his hand on the side of Xehanort’s face, and Xehanort starts to lean into his touch before he remembers himself and stands up straight. Eraqus brushes his thumb over Xehanort’s cheek and gives him a gentle smile, full of reassurance, before he says, “Yeah.”

Xehanort can’t help it; he laughs, both at the unexpectedness of Eraqus’s response and the sheer sincerity in his voice. Eraqus manages a wan smile, keeping his hand on Xehanort’s face. He tilts his head up, and Xehanort leans down, meeting him halfway for a kiss. He takes a step toward Eraqus, trying to close the distance between them, but he can’t, no matter how near to each other they stand. Xehanort puts his hand on Eraqus’s back, and Eraqus rests his hand on Xehanort’s chest, fixing his shirt. It’s a fond, familiar gesture, and one with a sense of finality. An unmistakable good-bye kiss.

They separate a little too soon, but they’re not young enough anymore for Eraqus to pull Xehanort, laughing, back in to finish it. They’re older now, and they know how to leave something unresolved and move forward, even if forward for one is in the opposite direction of forward for the other.

As Xehanort heads to the center of the courtyard, his armor hardly waits to be summoned. It seems to spend more time on his body than off it these days. His Keyblade is the same, sensing that it’s time to leave another world and yearning to transform into the glider. Xehanort lets it.

The conversation from last night creeps back into his head, when Xehanort claimed that he wanted to find something that could be _his_. He knows they’re long past the point where Eraqus would ever say it, but now, as he’s preparing to leave, he can hear Eraqus’s unspoken reply: “You have me.”

Xehanort dons his helmet, steps onto his glider, and turns around for one more look at Eraqus’s face while denying him the same courtesy. Eraqus stands just a few steps away, but he will not close that gap with an impulsive, last-minute farewell like the previous times. He stands closer to the tower’s stairs than he does to Xehanort. His white and yellow robe matches the exterior of the building.

With a long overdue sense of resolve, Xehanort kicks up his glider and goes. “You have me.” It’s a sweet sentiment, but nothing more. Eraqus belongs to Departure now, and will never belong to him.

Neither one of them has ever professed to know the future, but both of them know they won’t be seeing each other again for a long time. Eraqus knows it as a person who has solemnly sworn himself to something greater, to prolong a tradition that existed generations and generations before his conception. Xehanort knows it like a migratory animal, following an instinct embedded in him as deeply as a nerve.

Xehanort looks down one last time, while he’s still close enough to see. Eraqus is standing in the center of the courtyard, where Xehanort had been moments ago. His arms are crossed to provide him with security and comfort, which is a job he’ll have to do on his own now. He raises one hand to block out the sun as Xehanort rises higher in the sky, then waves when he realizes Xehanort is looking at him, too. They try to memorize every detail of each other, because they can both feel it: the potential future chains between them crumbling, and the few that remain already starting to rust.

The worst part, Xehanort thinks, is that there was no falling out, no argument that sent him running to other galaxies, only to return years later to mend what they’d broken. There was just a slow and steady decline, the natural consequence of allowing each other to fall down their list of priorities. It’s not the distance or the friction that wears away at their relationship, but the time. The years they were together in Scala are already outnumbered by the years they’ve been apart, and it takes effort now just to remain friends.

They’ll both go on. Xehanort will continue to cut himself loose from anything that might keep him tethered, and Eraqus will continue to have daily reminders of what could have been. When he goes to the cliffside, will he think of sharing a drink with Xehanort and looking at the stars? When he goes to the grand hall, will he envision Xehanort seated comfortably on the rightmost chair? How long will it take him to get used to going to bed alone again? He’d reached for Xehanort so urgently in the hallway, not even letting him lay his hand on the doorknob of the spare room. At the time, Xehanort thought it was just a result of their arguing, a passionate debate leading to other passions in an outrageous but welcome cliché.

Now he wonders if it was a simple matter of loneliness. Eraqus hadn’t denied that Departure felt lonely; he only insisted that Scala wasn’t any better. He’s lived his life in those two worlds, and no others. In the moment, it had felt like they were rekindling some deep connection, but in reality, maybe they were just two lonely men, seeking solace in each other because they don’t know anyone else who’s chosen such an isolating life.

They are light and darkness, equal but opposite forces of nature. Any relationship they try to maintain will either be crushed by the pressure of their being together, or torn in half by their separation. Whatever’s left between them, they have to let it go.

Nevertheless, Xehanort wouldn’t have minded one last chess game, if only to see whether Eraqus has changed any of his so-called strategies. He always had an almost prophetic tendency to leave his king on its starting square, while Xehanort’s was constantly on the move. The only time Xehanort can remember Eraqus moving his king was when he ended the game by picking up that final white and silver piece and returning it to where it belonged, undoing all their progress.

 _That’s not fair_ , Xehanort had said after his truly baffling loss. _I had you_.

A minute more, and he’ll reach the cloud cover. He refuses to look down again until he’s entered it.

 _Yes_ , was Eraqus’s knowing reply. _You nearly did_.

Xehanort tries to shut the memory up, starve it out, keep it from feeding him lines that only confirm what he’s already come to terms with. Eraqus once said that some light comes from the past, and the past is where it can stay. Xehanort is done trying to carry that shining hope and promise into the present, let alone the future.

Still, he knows he’ll never escape Eraqus for good. Darkness runs deep, but light shines far.

Once Xehanort sails into the clouds, and the sight of Departure is blotted out by calming gray, it all comes back to him. The wind whistles through his armor and feels like cold, rejuvenating life. A single day in Departure has made him sluggish and lost him immeasurable ground. It’s not a world where he can make his dreams come alive. That place lies further out, beyond his reach, beyond his imagination, in the primordial water and darkness from which everything in the universe is formed.

Duty always has been and always will be Eraqus’s ultimate priority. Xehanort can’t fault him for it. He’s known it from the start. Even in their early years at Scala, Eraqus had such a clear sense of purpose, of responsibility to something larger than himself. He had expressed doubt more than once in his ability to handle it, but he was always eager to take up the mantle.

Xehanort had admired that, in the same way he admires and is fascinated by everything that makes Eraqus who he is. But he has no desire to emulate it.

So he leaves Eraqus in Departure to follow the clarion call of duty, while Xehanort dives further and further into the darkness, following the siren call of the future, his potential, and the unseen worlds beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> One more installment to go. Thank you so much to all of you for sticking around this long.  
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go hibernate or something. This one took a lot out of me.


End file.
